


Rorschach

by LananiA3O



Series: Batman: Arkham Compendium [11]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Major Character Injury, post-arkham knight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 02:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7249204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LananiA3O/pseuds/LananiA3O
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the activation of the Knightfall protocol, Alfred ponders the night that claimed his master's secret identity. Of all the hundreds and thousands of things that happened, one sticks out like a sore thumb: "I've found Jason."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rorschach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VelkynKarma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelkynKarma/gifts).



> Notes: You'd think that 100k of Jason-centric fic would be enough to provide me some closure, but here we go again! Decided to go from Alfred's point of view, because gosh-dang-it he deserves some answers. Gifting this to VelkynKarma for all his/her wonderful comments on 'Red'.
> 
> Canon: For this story, only the Arkham games and their DLCs are considered canon.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Batman Arkham Knight or any of its characters. This is non-profit by a fan for fans only.

The waves were lapping quietly against the ship’s hull as the last light of day fell through the bull’s eye. Beneath the small porthole, Master Bruce was sound asleep in his bed, his brow still furrowed into its trademark scowl. Most people looked more peaceful when they were asleep. Master Bruce just looked more exhausted.

Alfred had known that this Halloween night would end badly from the moment the ACE Chemicals factory had exploded. In between his exposure to Scarecrow’s fear gas, Miss Gordon’s abduction, the constant onslaught of the mysterious Arkham Knight’s militia, Riddler’s increasingly insane games with Miss Kyle as his hostage and all the other criminal activities, Alfred’s master had stretched himself too far and too thin this time. And that was not even accounting for his odd behavior over the last few months in general. Thank God the Joker was already dead and gone.

When Master Drake had been kidnapped by Scarecrow, Alfred knew that it was over. Master Bruce had lost one Robin, one son, already. He was not going to lose another and if Scarecrow wanted him unmasked or even killed, then that was a price Master Bruce would be willing to pay, a price he did ultimately end up paying. And yet, throughout what little had remained of the night, Alfred had hoped that his master might change his mind. He had set up the Knightfall protocol dutifully and without protest, reconnecting dormant charges hidden all over the manor to the Batcomputer, booting all data-erasing programs and retrieving all necessary funds and documentation, but he had hoped his master would revoke his decision. Right up until he had uttered her name. _Martha._

Alfred had tried, one last desperate time, to persuade Batman, just before the Knightfall protocol was activated. It had been a futile effort, of course. As the myriad of cameras had flashed behind him, Master Bruce had assured him that this was the only way he would be able to protect his family. Alfred did not agree, but it was not his place to argue. He was here to serve and serve he did.

The manor and its immediate surrounding area had come apart with a rolling rumble to rival the strongest thunderstorms, even as Alfred and his master had made their way through the cramped tunnels that led away from Crest Hill and down to the harbor. Soon the tunnels, too, would collapse, leaving nothing but rubble and dirt of what had once been a glorious estate with a million dollar mansion and a billion dollar Batcave. The boat had been lying in the harbor, waiting for its sailors. As they had sailed out of the bay and into international waters, Master Bruce had taken off the suit, activated the self-destruct on his gadgets and gauntlets and ditched it all into the black waters outside of Gotham. Without the suit, Bruce Wayne instantly looked more like a man and less like a myth.

 _A broken, tired man_ , Alfred had thought sadly, as he had removed the bullet from in between the man’s ribs and tended to the multitude of miscellaneous cuts and bruises that had been inflicted on him throughout the night. Dinner had consisted of a cup of hot tea and two red-and-white painkillers. Ten minutes later, his master had finally sunk into the kind of deep sleep only truly exhausted men are capable of. Alfred had set to cleaning up the ship with all his questions left unasked and unanswered.

What had happened at ACE Chemicals and on the airships, when Master Bruce had simply scowled at his holo link, not even reacting to Alfred? Why had he not told anyone that Miss Gordon was alive after all? Why did Alfred have to hear it from her first? Had Master Drake found out at all? Why had he not gone to the movie studios immediately after rescuing her to at least inform Master Drake of her survival? And most importantly: what exactly had he meant when he had said ‘I’ve found Jason’? How could it possibly be that he had found him? Had Joker not killed him? What had happened to the poor boy? Where was he now? What was going on?

With a deep sigh, Alfred opened the small, Wayne-crest-adorned mahogany box he had saved from the manor. Everything else on this boat was like a blank canvas – sleek, clean, anonymous. Visually, the box fit perfectly into the picture of tasteful decadence, but it was more than just a trinket. It was a memento, a keepsake, from a life that was now lost and gone. Master Bruce would disapprove, but Alfred would fight tooth and nail to keep it.

The first item inside the box was a picture of Master Drake and Miss Gordon at the very same harbor the boat had departed from. The photo had been taken on one of Gotham’s rare sunny days this very summer and the bright light only highlighted the pure, undiluted joy on the faces of the happy couple. It was a snapshot of happy, simple times. Master Drake had kept it in a golden frame on the table next to his bed and when Alfred had walked into the room, pondering which memory to save from the oncoming inferno, this had been an easy pick.

The second item was a fridge magnet with the Flying Grayson’s logo on it. It had been a small farewell gift from Master Grayson upon his departure from the manor all those years ago and it had been on the main fridge of the manor’s kitchen ever since. Every time Alfred had gone to prepare a meal for the masters of the house, he had looked at the little patch of black, white, blue and gold and it had never ceased to bring back wonderful memories of Master Grayson’s three years at Wayne Manor. The young acrobat had turned a beautiful, yet mostly frigid house into a warm home full of laughter and smiles. Now, Alfred used the magnet to fasten the picture of Master Drake and Miss Gordon to the fridge in the ship’s pantry and returned to the cabin. There was only one more item in the box.

He had had to fold the paper twice to fit it in the box and part of him had felt deeply sorry for having to mar the drawing in the slightest. Now, as he unfolded it once more, Alfred could not suppress the pinch of pain and sorrow in his chest as the memories came back to him.

It had been a stormy night just shy of the end of the year 2009. Batman had been out on patrol as usual, with Batgirl for support. Just a few hours earlier, Master Bruce had finished his latest hand-to-hand combat session with young Master Todd. It had been going perfectly well – Master Todd did have an acquired talent for fighting and a natural tenacity and durability that lend itself to combat – until he had walked straight into one of Master Bruce’s vicious kicks. Master Todd had toppled over in pain and suddenly there had been a fury in the boy’s eyes that had made Alfred cringe hard. The tackling and grappling that had followed had ended with the young man face down on the ground, his right arm twisted sharply behind his back, and Master Bruce’s weight on top of him, pushing down hard. The resulting mayhem had lasted for no more than a few seconds, but it had told Alfred and most likely Master Bruce as well more about Jason’s state of mind than anything before. Within a second, the boy had gone from wincing in pain, to eyes-wide-open frozen in shock, to terrified trembling and rambling to blind-panicked rage, complete with desperate twisting and bucking, fearful pleading and a long string of curses that would have made a hardened sailor blush. Just for once, Master Bruce’s reflexes had not been quick enough. By the time he had released the boy’s arm, the bone had snapped with a sickening crunch as a result of his wild thrashing.

As soon as he was free, Master Todd had run from both of them, his face still a mask of pain, fury and a spark of panic. Alfred had found him hiding in one of the storage rooms, trying very hard and succeeding rather poorly in setting the broken bone straight and fixing himself up with a first aid kit. Where he had gotten the supplies from and how long he had had them stashed in that room, Alfred had neither known nor bothered to ask. He had spent the better part of half an hour talking to the boy, carefully approaching him like one would a wounded animal trapped in a snare, until he had finally convinced him to step out of the room and let Alfred treat the wound properly. By then Master Bruce had already heeded an emergency call from GCPD, leaving behind instructions to have Master Todd retire for the night and delay the debriefing to the morning. He had also instructed Alfred to make sure to activate all alarms and security systems, particularly the ones closest to Jason’s bedroom, and yet, when Alfred had returned from the Batcave two hours later to check in on his patient, the windows had been wide-open and Master Todd had been long gone.

By this point, his escaping acts were no longer new to Alfred, nor to Master Bruce for that matter, which did not mean that they did not leave both of them worried sick. What was new was that Master Todd had left something behind this time. The sketch had looked disturbing even from a distance, faintly resembling a Rorschach picture. Master Todd’s ability to make pencil lines look like ink would have been nothing short of astonishing had it not been for feeling of dread and uneasiness that dripped from every line.

The curved splotch of dark grey in the middle was riddled with little cuts and punctures of deep crimson. At first glance, one might have been tempted to say the shape looked vaguely like a profile view of a curled up person lying on the ground, except that Alfred knew enough of anatomy to know that no man’s limbs were meant to bend like that. Thick trails of crimson were streaming from what could have been interpreted as the figure’s face, lower back and gut. All over the picture, little concentric bursts of dark grey littered the white background. They reminded Alfred remotely of raindrops hitting the harsh asphalt of Gotham’s streets.

Back then, he had not been able to suppress the sharp stab of guilt in his gut as the implications of the sketch dawned on him. Alfred had first discovered Master Todd’s love for drawing thanks to a few absent-minded and yet highly detailed doodles on his Spanish textbook. When he had addressed the sketches over dinner, Master Todd had recoiled in panic, apology upon apology spluttering from his mouth. Master Bruce had only been able to look on in carefully veiled confusion. To the unknowing observer, it would have looked like blank indifference, but Alfred had been able to feel the surprise radiating from his master’s body. Master Todd had not. He had hunched down in his seat, every muscle tense and ready for defense, steeling himself for a far more brutal reaction. Alfred had wondered what must have happened in the poor boy’s life to make him think that he would get a beating for a few sketches in a textbook, but had quickly decided that de-escalating the situation was of much greater importance. He had walked over to Master Todd, putting one hand on the boy’s shoulder as gently as possible and assuring him that Bruce Wayne certainly had enough money to afford replacing a textbook, if needed. “Perhaps we should provide you with a proper sketch pad nonetheless,” Alfred had concluded. “Such talent should not go to waste.”

Master Todd’s disbelief had been a palpable thing. Clearly praise was not something the boy was used to either. Alfred added it to the long list of seemingly mundane comforts that he and Master Bruce would gradually need to familiarize him with. A list which had begun the day Master Todd had arrived at the manor and had included such ridiculously basic things as a warm bed, three healthy meals a day and a safe room to sleep in.

When he had given Master Todd a set of high-quality pencils and a pure, white sketch pad for Christmas, the teenager’s eyes had been glowing in excitement and gratitude. He had rewarded Alfred with one of those rare, irresistible, genuinely happy smiles of his. Most people looked five years younger when they slept. Master Todd looked five years younger when he smiled, which, in consideration of the toll his harsh young life had already taken on him, meant that he actually looked his age for a change. Alfred had hoped that he would put the present to good use and judging from the many gadget sketches on the boy’s desk he had done so, but Alfred had never hoped for, never expected this.

At first, the sketch had made him feel nothing short of guilty for having given Master Todd the tools to taint a passion as innocent as drawing with such a horrible, graphic representation of the boy’s traumatized psyche and nightmares. Only on the way back to the Batcave had it occurred to him that the very existence of this sketch was a testimony to how much Master Todd had come to trust Alfred and Master Bruce in the five months since he had arrived at the manor. Eventually, he had still fled, unable to speak to anyone about what horrors had been going through his mind, but for the first time ever it had not been his first choice. Whatever painful memories his failed training session had evoked, Jason had not immediately given in to the urge to run and hide. First, he had tried to exorcise his demons, to find a more productive outlet for the pain and the fear. His eventual escape had made it clear that it had not been enough, but he had tried. He had made an effort. And most importantly, he had trusted Alfred enough to leave the piece of paper lying on his pillow, where he would have no trouble finding it.

For once, Master Todd had not rejected the hand that had been stretched out to him in compassion and comfort. For once he had shown some form of trust. It was little more than a flicker of light in a sea of pitch black darkness, but even a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. Master Todd had taken that step and Alfred had been nothing short of honored and grateful to have been his chosen travelling companion for this difficult part of his journey from darkness into the light. Everything about this picture was Master Todd – from the meticulous lines demonstrating outrageous talent, to the color palette, from the horrible, twisted implications of the subject matter to the context of struggle and gradual improvement that came with it.

“I remember the night you showed me this picture.” Master Bruce’s eyes were wide awake, but the fatigue and exhaustion were still evident throughout his body. Twelve hours of sleep were not nearly enough for what his master had gone through, particularly since he had not had a single good, dreamless night of sleep since Master Todd’s disappearance all those years ago. Not too long after he had finally dealt with that trauma, Miss Gordon had been attacked, then the outbreak at the Asylum, then Arkham City, now this… However, it was clearly not fatigue that distorted his master’s voice a little bit. It was guilt. “I broke his arm.”

“An accident, Master Bruce,” Alfred assured him quickly. Master Bruce was nothing if not stubborn and if he were to give him the chance to let the guilt settle in, it would stick with him for days. “An unfortunate result of Master Todd’s violent thrashing and your expertly applied hold. I can assure you Master Todd held no grudge over his injury.” That was the truth. When Jason had eventually returned to the manor, a little less than a week later, waltzing through the front door at five in the morning as if nothing had happened, Alfred had immediately set to getting the young master cleaned up, patched up and settled into his room. As Alfred had cleaned out fresh cuts and bruises, Master Todd had apologized for running away, promising to make up his lost hours of study time during the weekends and nights and apologize to all his tutors in person. He had also apologized for getting his arm broken. Alfred had told him almost exactly the same thing he had told Master Bruce just now, followed by the quick re-assurance that having him back safely at home was all that mattered.

“My sincerest apologies for disregarding your instructions, Master Bruce, but I simply could not persuade myself to leave the manor without at least a single memento of each of the boys.”

“It’s alright, Alfred. I understand.”

The silence between them seemed to stretch on forever. Master Bruce was looking at the ceiling, brooding once more as he was so often wont to do after a long day. Alfred’s gaze was once more focused on the sketch in his hands. Master Todd had been the most problematic of Bruce Wayne’s sons by far, but he had also been the most determined, most passionate of the trio. There was no middle ground with Master Todd – he was either wretchedly miserable or blissfully happy, terrifyingly upset and angry, or otherworldly quiet and tranquil. In many ways, he was more like Master Bruce than either of the other two boys would ever be.

As many headaches as the young master had given him, Alfred would have given his arm to have him back. The manor had felt so quiet, so empty without him.

“Master Bruce…” Alfred took a deep breath, stealing himself for what might turn out to be an exercise in futility. “I sincerely apologize for pressing this matter, but after you escaped from the tunnels underneath the Arkham Knight’s headquarters, you contacted me and said you had found Master Todd?” On the other side of the room, Master Bruce bristled in his bed, every muscle in his body tensing. His lips were pressed together firmly, his eyes squinted in pain. “I am deeply sorry, Master Bruce. It was an unwise question. You should rest some more.”

He was halfway out the door, the sheet of paper still firmly clutched in his fingers, when his master’s voice reached him. Bruce Wayne had never sounded so old, so defeated. “He was the Arkham Knight.”

“Excuse me, sir?” He must have misheard him. Surely Master Todd would never have—

“Jason was the Arkham Knight, Alfred. That’s why we couldn’t figure out who was behind the mask. We were only searching among the living.”

“My God…” It was all he could manage before shock seeped through his bones, forcing him onto the chair opposite the bed once more. It had been a little more than three years now – three years, two months and sixteen days to be precise – since they had received that dreadful video.

Alfred remembered Master Bruce coming home that night, his patrol cut short, with Master Drake in tow, who was trying and failing to look unaffected as he was comforting the crying Miss Gordon. He had known what had happened even before he looked at the film. The last time Master Bruce’s eyes had been red from tears he had been eight years old and returning from the Waynes’ funeral. When Master Grayson had returned in the morning, having spent the entire night taking apart the scene atop Mercy Bridge inch by inch, his first act had been to seek out Alfred and hug him tightly, but not even Alfred’s comforting and soothing voice had been able to stop the sobs. “He’s dead, Alfred,” Master Grayson had managed in between tears and tremors. “Jay’s dead and we’re still not even an inch closer to finding him. Not even his body…”

In the hauntingly quiet days that had followed, Alfred had finally caught a glimpse of the video. He had barely managed to watch it once. Master Bruce had kept on forcing himself through the footage for two weeks, desperately looking for a hint, a chance, that it might be a fake, a fluke, a sick joke.

When Master Todd’s subscriptions of _Neuroscience Monthly, The American Forensic Journal, Pioneering Engineering_ and _Sketch Art’s Finest_ had arrived in the mail at the beginning of September, the stinging pain that been almost unbearable. He had watched Master Bruce faking his son’s signature to get the subscriptions cancelled without having to explain why Jason would not be able to do it himself. The next day, he had ordered the marble for the headstone and set out to build the hidden memorial in the forests surrounding the manor.

Three years, two months and sixteen days.

Master Todd’s death had left a void in the manor and the people who had lived there and while the pain had lessened over the years, it had never fully faded. Alfred still felt like the manor was too silent. Occasionally, he still felt himself pour a cup of red tea in addition to his own green and Master Bruce’s black. He missed Jason’s voice. His laugh. His rage. His tears. His sketches. His gadget tinkering. Even the little pranks he had used to pull when he felt spited, like programming every phone in the manor to play the Arkham Asylum jingle.

“He cornered me just as I was about to free Jim,” Master Bruce eventually continued, his eyes still staring stubbornly at the blank ceiling. “The things he said to me—He thought I had abandoned him, Alfred. That I had just given up and replaced him with Tim and left him to rot in the Joker’s hands.”

Alfred mulled that information over in his head. For all his bravado, Master Todd had always been the most insecure of the Robins. He was not a very social person by nature and the many ordeals life had put him through even before his arrival at the manor had done his sense of self in a society no favors. On the outside, he had seemed brash, rude and aggressive. Anyone who had racked up the patience to stick with him for a few days and actually listen to him had eventually realized that it was his way of getting attention, of ensuring that he was not just a replaceable face among thousands, that he would be remembered and that people would care about him, even if caring meant wondering how to get rid of the brat. ‘Do unto others before they do onto you’ was what he had said when Alfred had asked him why he had initially rejected any and all offers of help from anyone in Batman’s family. There were only a few people Master Todd had ever truly liked and even fewer whom he had trusted. Alfred could count them on one hand. Whatever Joker had done to him in those nightmarish fifteen months between his capture and his ‘death’ must have pushed him over the edge, confirming his nagging suspicion that no one truly cared.

That is, if he had managed to escape at that point. God only knew how much time had elapsed between that video and Master Todd’s return to freedom. For all Alfred knew, Joker might have held him hostage right up until the events of Arkham City.

“He also told me where Joker kept him.”

Alfred had been doing his best to keep his composure, but that simple sentence had him on high alert and ready to jump from his seat. That prison had better have been invisible or on the other side of the world.

“Arkham.”

“The Asylum?” It could not possible be. Commissioner Gordon had made sure that no one was going in or out of that place without his express permission.

“Alfred, I must have been there at least a hundred times in between Joker taking him and sending me that video. If I had bothered to activate the cowl even once… If I had just looked—“

“This is not your fault, Master Bruce—“

“It IS my fault, Alfred!” Alfred nearly flinched. The last time he had seen Master Bruce that furious was when Miss Gordon and Master Drake had gone after Joker on their own, in the February after Master Todd’s appearance, to rescue Miss Gordon’s father. “It was foolish and careless! I looked everywhere but on Arkham Island.” As usual, the outburst did not last very long, but just this once Alfred would have preferred the rage to the crushed look of misery. “I promised him, Alfred. I promised him that I would never abandon him. I failed.”

“You never abandoned him, Master Bruce, because you never gave up.” Alfred hoped that his voice sounded as calm as he wanted it to. He hoped that none of his own emotional distress shone through. Master Bruce needed him now more than ever. So did Master Todd. He had to be strong. “Not searching for him on Arkham Peninsula may have been a grievous oversight, but that possibility had never occurred to anyone in the family. I am fairly certain it would not have occurred to Master Todd either, had it been someone else in Joker’s hands.”

The sad truth was Jason would probably have been the first person to suggest Arkham Asylum as a potential location. Years of living on the streets, sliding in and out of crime, had given him a near instinctive insight into criminal minds that most profiling agents of federal bodies could only hope to achieve. He had also always been very good at thinking outside of the box. Coupled with his sheer strength and determination, his seemingly random and unpredictable behavior had been downright terrifying to most strangers. It was not random, though. There was a pattern, only no one but Master Todd had been able to see it.

Right now, Alfred would rather bite off his own tongue than relay that thought to Master Bruce. “Whatever happened to Master Todd is not your fault.”

“That is a very polite lie, Alfred.”

As the silence fell between them once more, Alfred found himself thinking back to all the radio chatter of the Arkham Knight that he had picked up over the night. It all made sense now. The sudden changes from cool military commanding to a sheer force of rage and frustration. The occasional sound of sheer pain and brokenness in the garbled voice. The constant disagreement with Scarecrow. The fact that he had anticipated all of Master Bruce’s moves, that he had been able to hack his gauntlet, ambush him and even shoot him. The fact that he had found Miss Gordon. The fact that she had still been alive and mostly unharmed at the end of the night, instead of having been shot on sight or gassed by Scarecrow. As a matter of fact, now that Alfred thought about it, he understood why the Arkham Knight had not come after Alfred or Mister Fox or Masters Grayson and Drake. He doubted he would have gone after Miss Gordon after all had she not been the backbone of Batman’s live tech support and fully capable of crippling the militia in a matter of minutes.

The militia… _Master Todd, what happened to you in that asylum?_

On the small bed, Master Bruce had rolled over onto his right side, wincing ever so slightly as the bullet wound in his left flank protested at the movement. His hand was stretched out as far as possible, his gaze fixated on the paper in Alfred’s hand. Alfred handed it over without a word and watched his master unfold it carefully, each line in his face darkening even more as he studied the picture.

“Did you ever manage to uncover what horrible memory he was trying to exorcise when he drew this?”

Alfred nearly snorted at that. He might as well have been asked if he had ever managed to beat Superman in a fist fight. “I am afraid not, Master Bruce. Neither did he ever talk about any of his other Rorschach drawings.”

“There were so many of them…” Alfred knew what Master Bruce saw in his mind right now. A formerly blue, then red wall plastered with sketches of various sizes, most of them for new gadgets, interrupted by dozens of these little patches of horror. “I remember his first night in the manor. He did not sleep for a single minute. The second night he was having nightmares from hell and nearly clawed my eyes out when I woke him.”

“He had always been a troubled boy,” Alfred agreed. It was the understatement of the year.

“He came into my life broken and I tried to fix him. I only broke him more.”

“The Joker did that,” Alfred quickly stated, before deciding to steer the conversation back into the present. Pondering the past had never been a good idea in the Wayne household. “Do you know where Master Todd might be now?”

“I wish.” Master Bruce sounded unbelievably tired as he rolled onto his back again and clutched the sketch to his chest. “He saved me at the Asylum. When Scarecrow tried to shoot me, he shot the gun from his hand and shot my restraints to free me. I should have turned to him first instead of checking on Tim.”

Alfred did not know what to say to that. Hindsight was a funny thing, but no less helpful in this case. From a strictly rational point of view, a gun shot to the stomach was certainly the priority. Subjectively speaking, what Master Todd had gone through – and most likely was still going through – was almost certainly worse. The fact that Master Todd was once more out there, alone, on his own with nothing but his memories and nightmares was certainly daunting.

“Did you tell Master Grayson and Miss Gordon? Or Mister Fox for that matter?” Master Grayson and Miss Gordon had been like brother and sister for Master Todd. Surely they would want to know that he was still alive. Mister Fox had always had a fondness for the talented boy who shared his love for engineering and missed him just as much as every member of the family, even though he had spent significantly less time with him.

“No.” If it had not been for the crushed sound swinging underneath the word, Alfred would have taken it upon himself to point out the cruelty of this lack of communications. As it were, Master Bruce seemed to have come to that conclusion by himself already. “I did amend my will to include him just before returning to the manor,” Master Bruce continued. “They will know that he is still alive. They will find him.”

“If he wishes to be found.” Alfred did his best to hide the hopelessness in his voice. Master Todd had been forced to learn how to be a shadow at age eight and he had perfected said skill during his time as Robin. The fact that nobody had heard or seen a single sign of life from him since he had escaped the Joker, all the while building an entire army from scratch, only proved that he was still just as capable as he had always been, perhaps even more so. As heartbreaking and wrong as it was that he had focused all his efforts onto killing the man who had once taken him in, made him his son and tried to give him a purpose, a goal, a place in life, Alfred had to admit that they had been tremendous efforts, showcasing a great degree of tenacity and determination and implying a great deal of ingenuity, strategic thinking and meticulous planning. If Master Todd wanted to disappear off the face of the earth following this night, he would find a way to do it. And part of Alfred feared that whatever damage Joker had done to the poor boy’s mind and soul would never heal if he did.

“There is still some of the old Jason, the old Robin, left in him,” Master Bruce said, as if he had read his mind. “In the end, after we… talked… he could have shot me, but he didn’t. He could have shot Scarecrow, but he didn’t. It’s not too late, Alfred.”

“Are you quite sure of that, Master Bruce?” Alfred hoped. He desperately hoped that his master was right and that Master Todd was not lost to the rage and pain that had threatened to consume him so often throughout his life, even though he knew that it would make no difference to Alfred himself. Bruce Wayne was dead. Alfred Pennyworth was dead. Their new identities were lined up. They had gone dark and the most important part about going dark was cutting all ties with previous identities. The home that Master Todd could have returned to was rubble and ashes. Bruce Wayne was too famous a face to ever return to Gotham and there was no Alfred Pennyworth without Bruce Wayne. Alfred would never see him again. It hurt. It felt like watching the confounded video all over again. If felt like losing Master Todd again. Worst of all, it felt like failure.

With a deep sigh, Alfred sank back into his chair. His thoughts returned to Gotham and the mayhem that had been unleashed upon it. From the eyes of an outside observer, unaware of what had driven the Scarecrow and the Arkham Knight, both of them looked like war criminals ripe for execution. In between ACE Chemicals and the Cloudburst there were at least two kidnappings, a few dozen counts of murder, the occupation of major city on American soil and the threat and eventual detonation of a chemical weapon that ended up causing the deaths of hundreds. If the Arkham Knight ever were to get caught, there would be a lethal injection waiting for him somewhere.

“I still cannot believe that it was truly Master Todd.” He simply could not. He knew it was true, he knew it was real, but it simply sounded all wrong. It was as if a bomb had detonated next to him and everything he heard was covered under layers of ringing. “He should not be alone out there. Not again.” Master Bruce was right. It was not too late. It never would be. Master Todd was family and family did not abandon each other. Anger was not an emotion that came to Alfred easily. Right now, he was furious. “If you had told me all of this before Knightfall, I would never have pushed the button.”

“Alfred…”

“I never should have.” Alfred got up before his master would have any chance to respond and left the room with steady steps. He imagined that this was what Master Todd must have felt like for much of his life – utterly frustrated with the choices thrust before him, the choices made for him without any of his own participation, trying to turn rotten lemons into tasty lemonade. He made his way to the deck and stood by the guard rail. Night had fallen over the Atlantic. The sea was blissfully quiet, the sky surprisingly clear for November. It should have been a picture of serenity, but instead it made him feel lost. Not finding Master Todd when he had been in Joker’s hands had not been abandonment. Failing to warn Miss Gordon before Scarecrow abducted her had not been abandonment. Failing to prevent Master Grayson from running into the Penguin’s trap had not been abandonment. But this... running from the city they had sworn to protect, leaving behind the people that needed them the most…

This was abandonment.

Alfred hated himself for it. Family does not abandon each other. Certainly not in times like these, when they need it the most. He had half a mind to turn the boat around. This was not right. Thomas and Martha Wayne would be turning in their graves if they knew.

“Gotham needs a stronger myth than Batman.” Judging from the sound of his voice, Master Bruce was standing almost right behind him, but Alfred dared not look. He was not sure if the fury had crawled from his chest all the way to his face and he was not ready to break yet another promise. “She needs a stronger man than I can be right now. And so does Jason.”

“Jason needs a father. A family.” _Master Todd_ , Alfred corrected himself post-haste, but perhaps this was for the best. He was almost certain that his little mistake had told Master Bruce all he needed to know about his butler’s opinion on the matter. “Master Bruce, do you recall how I managed to help you overcome your animosity towards bats and your misery after your parents’ deaths all those years ago?”

“Of course.” The voice was firm, but Alfred could hear the tentative uneasiness underneath it. Thirty years left little room for secrecy. “You told me the only way to truly overcome fear was to face it.” In the case of eight-year-old Bruce Wayne, facing fears had involved a careful step-by-step approach to getting the boy used to darkness and confined spaces once more, carefully introducing both in safe environments for short quantities of time, before moving on to gradually reacquainting him with the creatures that lived beneath the manor. By the time the first anniversary of Thomas and Martha Wayne’s deaths had come around, Master Bruce had already made good progress. Even so, he doubted the boy would have gotten far without adequate emotional support.

Master Todd had obviously not had any support over the last three years and he would not have any from Alfred or Master Bruce now. In a way, his master was only proving his point. “You may not realize it, Master Bruce, but as strong as your children are, you were the foundation their family was built on. Houses without foundations tend to stand only for a very short while.” Back then, Alfred had been Master Bruce’s foundation. Before, it had been Thomas, Martha and Alfred. After, it had only been Alfred. “They do not know that you are still alive. For all they know, you were unmasked and murdered. Now who is left to be their foundation? Who is left to help them overcome their fears and teach them how to move on and rebuild themselves?”

“I understand what you are trying to tell me, Alfred,” Master Bruce muttered, now standing right next to Alfred. “But there are three things I learned from last night. First of all, I am much, much weaker than anyone would believe, including me. And houses built on weak foundations do not last long either.” There was truth in that, Alfred had to admit. It still felt like an excuse. It still felt like betrayal.

“Secondly,” Master Bruce handed the sketch back to him, “I think all of my children are much stronger than I ever gave them credit for, especially Jason.” He accepted the piece of paper and gave one more look at the nightmarish, pencil-made ink splotch imitation. For a boy that broken and traumatized, Jason had proven to be unbelievably resilient. Sadly, Alfred had the nagging suspicion that the broken boy was still at the core of his being and the strong, indomitable force that had nearly brought Batman and Gotham to their knees was just a mask.

“Last but not least, I learned that there are some people that even death cannot keep down.” Alfred raised a brow at that. Certainly Master Bruce was thinking of Master Todd, but he had been speaking in plural. He wondered whatever other ghosts had returned from the grave this Halloween. Judging from the somber look on his master’s face, Alfred judged it better not to ask.

“I have not forgotten my promises, Alfred,” his master finally concluded, one hand reaching out to rest on the butler’s shoulders. Whatever residual anger had been lingering inside Alfred seeped from his soul like poison from a wound. His master still looked tired, but the fire that had burned inside him, cleansing Gotham of its evil, was back in his eyes once more. “I promised Gotham I would keep her safe for as long as I lived. I promised my children I would never abandon them. And I won’t. Go and rest, Alfred. I may be too weak to keep my promises right now, but I have no intention of giving up. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

As his master returned to the cabin, Alfred could not help the smile that crept onto his lips. He went down to the pantry and stuck the sketch right next to the photo and the magnet on the fridge, hoping and praying that the warmth and steadiness would bleed over, just like he hoped that Master Grayson and Miss Gordon would find Master Todd so that their faith and love could brighten the shadows that had turned him into the Arkham Knight.

Master Bruce was right. There really were some people that even death could not keep down.


End file.
